Time and the Gods - Lethean

On fleetest wings flies the mortal soul

From winter’s chill into homely halls

Great is the storm, fragile is the candle

The night is falling — few are they who truly see the dawn

Life’s flame burns low

Smoke drapes the embers

Where the Lethe flows

No man remembers

In the embrace of a shroud of weeds

Headstones effaced by the centuries

Sad epitaphs, how they whisper through the ivy

The night is falling — restless is the sand within the glass

Bones turn to dust

In soil once sanctified

Ironwork to rust

Bright faces petrified

Hope’s flame burns low

Smoke drapes the embers

Where the Lethe flows

No powers venture

As the twilight yields to darkness

As mountains turn to sand

Like the mindless march of entropy

The river finds the sea

O father Aion cradle me

In thy beneficent arms

Hark not to Chronos calling thee

With voice venefic and fell

There is a distant truth to seek

Beyond the waters of death